


Rock and Roll Is Here to Stay

by storiesfortravellers



Category: Jem and the Holograms
Genre: Enemy Lovers, F/F, Femslash, Mind Games, Misses Clause Challenge, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, rant, unapologetic narcissism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:45:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pizzazz doesn't ever apologize for who she is, which makes her life so much more fun.</p><p>Includes: Pizzazz's thoughts on what makes music good or bad, and what makes sex good or bad.  Femslash.  Enemy!sex. Profane language.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock and Roll Is Here to Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



I walk into the bar and the first thing I notice is that it's shitty. It's joe schmoe.

But even a hole in a wall can carry a blistering whiskey, and if I only went places that were up to my standards, I wouldn't go anywhere. Besides, it's not like the location was my choice this time.

At least these bar rubes have the good sense to _look_ when I come in. It's obvious they've never seen anyone like me, and I don't mind that they seem a little scared.

If anything, it's fun that they're a little scared. I'm not some pop princess here to tell their children to stay in school and eat their veggies and always, always listen to mommy. If anything, I'm here to steal their cookies and their candy and maybe their daddy for the night.

Except. There's one schlub who doesn't even look up from his bowl of pretzels. He's just sitting there, munching on them without a care in the world.

As if the queen of rock 'n' roll didn't just stride in.

Wait, no, not the queen. The empress.

The Catherine the Fuckin' Great of rock and roll.

In his little bar.

The rest of them know to look. They should be thrilled to see me, but like I said, it's natural for some people to be scared. Maybe they can't handle someone raw, someone who doesn't fit their tiny little lives of quiet desperation. Maybe they're scared of my sexuality, the fact that I look like I could crush them between my legs and make them thank me for it (I could, by the way). Maybe the really smart ones actually figure out that I am here to save rock, to save music, to save these ordinary jerks from their own mediocrity.

But Schlub doesn't even look up. So I say, "What's your problem, flatdick?" and he mumbles something about freaks invading his bar.

He stops mumbling when I shove him off the chair onto his ass. He mumbles something else, but then I give him a _look_ and he leaves right away.

His chair is comfy, and his pretzels taste delicious.

So I wait there.

And while I'm waiting, I should be thinking about that lick I'm doing on the new song, or about all the things I'm going to do on tour, or about how, in general, I should take over the world, because let's face it, I'm an ambitious girl. But instead I'm thinking about stupid crap that doesn't deserve a place in my head.

Jem.

And those Holograms.

The goody two shoes, talentless, blandpop jerks who get all the press despite sounding like if Tiffany did the theme song for the girl scouts while taking too much valium.

It's like, one of the great injustices of musical history.

Fine, they're competent players and singers. And their songs are sweet and maybe even a little catchy. But last I checked, that's not what rock 'n' roll is all about. It's about yelling something to the world, something that you could never put in a greeting card. It's about being so angry you play 'til your fingers bleed and then you play some more. It's the first time you hear the Moaners, it's a lick from Sleater Kinney, it's the Breeders encore at a concert that they're just supposed to be opening for. It's Joan mother fucking Jett.

Rock is supposed to be a fist to the face.

It's supposed to be a primal scream of "THIS IS ME THIS IS WHO I AM YOU FUCKERS SO FUCKING DEAL WITH IT."

And what are the Holograms' primal scream? "Hi, look at my pretty dress, do you want to do some charity work with me?"

What a bunch of hypocrites. I bet none of them are as sweet and innocent as they seem. At least I hope not, for their sakes. One of them, at least, has a decent streak of real life in her.

But you know, the thing about the Jem and the Holograms, it's not even a competition thing. Not that I'm not planning on crushing them on the charts, because I am, but this is about so much more than who's selling better or who's a total media favorite for no good reason whatsoever.

It's about the future of rock. It's about whether there will be real rebels out there who really don't give a fuck about what you think, or if there will be all this trendy pre-packaged fake rebellion, all these wannabes who think they're unique because they have pink hair and bedazzle their cunts. I assume that's what they do, anyway.

But my point is this: it's not just about me and her. It's a matter of fucking principle.

So this is what I'm thinking when she _finally_ gets there. To the crappy little bar she wanted to meet at so none of her friends would see her.

"You're late," I say.

"You outbid us on that European distributor," Jerrica says, eyes narrowed. Always the businesswoman. Until I turn her into someone else entirely, of course.

I smirk. "You win some, you lose some. Get over it." I kick a chair out toward her so she can sit.

She does. Even though she sighs like she wishes she had the sense to leave.

Honestly, I like it better this way. That she wishes desperately she didn't _want_ to be here.

"You could have done it honestly. Without sending that fake memo making us think we were about to win the bid."

More complaining. I don't know how someone smart as Jerrica can be so long in the music business and still have such rigid ideas about right and wrong. Not to mention how she can hang with that insipid moron, Jem.

I respond, "That's the business. Now did you come here to complain about it, or did you come here because you need something."

She narrows her eyes again. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

I smirk, not offended at all. This is why I like her, why I tolerate her when I wouldn't put up with any of her spineless little friends. She tougher - and so much dirtier - than her image would suggest.

"I'm headed to the Ladies' Room. Join me, or go home to the Holograms. I'm sure they have a wonderful evening planned, making S'Mores and watching reruns of Oprah."

I walk away without waiting, but sure enough, I hear her tiny heels clicking after me. As soon as we check to make sure the stalls are empty, I sit on the sink and she falls to her knees, the grime of the tiled floor getting all over the smooth doll skin below her Gucci skirt. Before she buries her face between my thighs, she looks down and bites her lip, and I can see that she wishes there were something, anything, she wanted more than this, I can see she _loathes_ herself for this.

As I feel her lips and tongue begin their work, I think about this look on her face, this desperate, self-disgusted look, and it only makes it better.


End file.
